Waving Not Drowning

The pong of Wednesday morning. The noxious, malodorous, stench of compost bins strewn half emptied across sidewalks, blown by gusts of wind into bike lanes, across driveways, randomly dancing into traffic. Blue and yellow garbage trucks piggy back one on top of the other a block apart refreshing the ripe atmosphere every few metres. Should have picked a different route. Something about wanting to stay alive, keep to the the bike route, south to Dundas, west to River, south to King. Wednesday mornings are quickly losing their appeal to her increasingly nauseated self. They must have changed the schedule or moved the parameters of the neighbourhood pick up. It used to be that the early mid week morning ride to work was her own private universe. No one on the roads, lanes clear, lights green the whole way through. Quiet, still, slumbrous. No buses or carpools, no screaming, anxious, angry children reluctantly offloading in front of the school. It's all in the timing. Fifteen minutes o...

Jeff!!!! Veronica calls out from across the street. She's going 20 kilometres an hour, easy. He's going 30, opposite direction. It could be Jeff. Sure looks like him. Full kit, shaggy hair, out of the saddle, clipped in and clocking her from two blocks away. Veronica considers herself a commuter cyclist. She rides a fancy ass road bike but she doesn't ride-ride. You know, like in a peleton or with a club; or for 5 hours on a Sunday morning or all of Tuesday afternoon while skipping out of the office to "work from home". Jeff's a Rider, a true Roadie. Quit triathalons to focus on the bike. Hence why she doesn't sees him anymore. It must have been Jeff. Who else would hone in on her from so far away? He recognizes her, knows her style. He should, she's the reason he rides. He built this bike, bought the frame for her 36th birthday and then helped her design it's entire configuration from Campy's vs Shimanos, fixie or flip flop. The spent hours ar...

It's no bigger than a fruitfly but something has lodged itself square in the centre of Mike's eye and he's immediately blinded, ripped apart by searing pain, fluid gushing out of his left tear duct. And there goes the ride. A fantastic start to a much needed and longed for spin and blammo, a knat takes him down. He is undone by a speck of an insect. Knocked him on his ass. Mike unclips, frantically blinking his eye, trying to find the position where he's least in pain. Eye open, lid shut, both feel like there are shards of glass scraping across his eyeball like rusted out windshield wipers on his old Civic. He unscrews the lid of his water bottle and pikes forward from the waist, tilting his head to the sky like that wizened old crippled deaf man who rides the evening bus . Glug, glug, glug. Mike pours the ice cold water across his eyes, trying to keep them open so whatever has burrowed it's way inside can be flushed out. This is crazy. Mike can't believe the pa...

How could you do this to me- how could you? Don't just stand there looking down on me, with your mouth agape, like a fish dry drowning. You have irrevocably changed my life, you know that, right? You've killed me. I'm sure of it. I'm lying here crumpled, broken. I can't move my legs. I have no feeling from my belly down. This is terrifying. What have you done, what have you done to me? How did you not see me, I am right here. RIGHT HERE.  This hurts, you know. I know you can't hear me, I realize this now. But I am doing my best to stare at you through my half closed eyelids in this state of semi consciousness. I am trying to intuit this information to you through my slowly fading spirit. Every iota of my being is focused on trying to move, to speak, to scream or burble, any sound will do. The pain. Oh this is ridiculously painful and numbing at the same time. I was right there, beside you, behind you, ahead of you, in your rearview, your sideview, your windshiel...

Sliced right through the side of his thumb. Nearly nicked the bone. Great, Aaron thinks. Instead of  a 40 mile ride as planned he's gonna end up sitting in emerg for hours waiting to get stitched up. Awesome. He spontaneously decides to repair the torn screen door to the back landing and bam, right into the bone. Box cutter meet thumb. Should've clipped Harley's nails last week and then he wouldn't have shredded the screen. Love that cat but man, right now little kitty mittens for the bugger sound like a great idea. Aaron is bleeding all over the place, his BMC kit now streaked with red brown blotches slowly leaking through the spandex. Great, now he has to get stains out of his jersey- probably not what he should be focusing on at the moment but he's partial to his man, Cadel. That's an image: fully kitted out and off to hospital. Knee high argyle compression socks and all. At least he'll stand out in triage. This sucks. Aaron can not believe how lousy his ...